Page 82 of The Mercy of Dawn

Even though she wasn’t pleased about Dion’s presence, she appreciated having his arm guiding her through to their table, giving her a chance to gape at her surroundings. She appreciated the unease he looked at her with too. He knew he fucked up.

As Cyril and Dion wove their way through the courtiers mingling about before their meal, she counted no fewer than two dozen tables spread across the long, rectangular room.

Against the otherwise neutral table linens, centerpieces of vibrant spring flowers—all in tones of blue, purple, and green—and their twisted glass accents brought a splash of life to the room. Cyril didn’t have the faintest idea what any of the flowers were called, but she was certain she had seen each of them in the gardens on her tour with Runa.

Above them, swaths of gauzy, cream-colored fabric hung in soft billows across the ceiling, gathered in neat bunches at each of the crystal chandeliers dotting the room. The sweeping lengths of the gauze rolled down the three interior walls, pinned in place with similar flower arrangements, framing alcoves and tapestries.

But of all the shining odds and ends of the room, the most stunning of all were the fae lights, and they were everywhere.

Small, large, and every size in between, they hung with impossible perfection in the air. More than she could ever hope to count bobbed along the draped fabric of the ceiling, and a cluster hung above each table. They lined the walls too, following the delicate plaster arches all along, and even illuminated the garden that the ballroom’s glass wall looked out onto.

They made the grand room feel intimate and warm, and Cyril couldn’t help but gape. She attended some prim parties back home, but nothing like this. The whimsy of it all had done wonders to quell the unease the earlier conversation with Dion had left her with.

She could see Astor and Reyna at the head table, leaning into each other and chatting quietly. Beside them sat an absent-looking Mikael, dressed in his military finery with two empty wine glasses already in front of him. Cyril and Dion’s own table for the evening was just a few over from the royal families.

“Cyr, you're going to catch flies if you just stand there like that. Come on.” Dion’s tug on her arm sent her crashing back down to reality. “You can continue gawking from your chair. Sit.”

“Gawking?” Cyril snorted. “Gods forbid, I appreciate something.”

Her uncle pointed to the chair he had just pulled out.

Through gritted teeth, he said, “Sit.”

Cyril did, though it took coordination between herself and Dion to sweep the tulle of her skirt under the table. A generous gesture from the queen, yes, but one that had gone sideways in the worst possible way.

They were the first to arrive at their table, with four empty seats spread about the round. Cyril couldn’t help but feel a little anxious about who their tablemates might be, after the unexpected turn of her conversation with Dion.

Surely there had not been enough time for him to talk to Runa and involve her in his schemes, but Cyril felt it safer to be wary. She had a clean shot at three exits if they filled their table with nothing but prospective employers—one to the garden, and two back out to the atrium.

“You look lovely, Cyr.”

Cyril almost didn’t hear Dion over the rolling rumble of chatter in the room.

“I— Thank you?” Cyril blinked and then glared at Dion. “I’m not sure if you want something or if you’re just trying to make up for earlier.”

He sighed, “It’s just a compliment, Cyr, no hidden agenda.”

Unlikely.

Dion rarely did things without some kind of motivating factor driving his words or actions. But Cyril just wanted to have a pleasant night and resisted the urge to challenge him on that.

Cyril’s lips quirked as she said, “You look…lordly.”

Her uncle struggled to clamp down a stoic mask over the grin that crept into his face.

“I do, don’t I?” he mused, smoothing a hand over the red and gold sash draped across his chest. The bastard cleaned up so well, with his tailored jackets and finery.

Cyril crinkled her nose at him and chuckled.

This sort of banter used to come easy to them. Now there wasn’t a moment where it didn’t feel like she was walking on thin, cracked ice with him. Like one wrong move could spell disaster at any moment. And Cyril…she didn’t want to think about any of that right now.

“I believe those”—Dion subtly tipped his chin towards a foursome walking pointedly in their direction—“are our tablemates for the evening.”

Three men—two tall and one rotund—and a woman who wore an almost offensive amount of jewelry. All fae, and exuding an aura of arrogance that Cyril had yet to see in Reykr. Commonplace in the south, yes, but after a few weeks away it felt foreign.

The reek of a sickly rich cologne hit her nose when they were still a few tables away. She winced at Dion, and he nodded his agreement as he rose from his chair.

Cyril went to do the same—a polite greeting was the least she could offer—but Dion set his hand on her shoulder. Apparently, he didn’t want to fight with her skirts again, either.